Comin’ up in a land
of Big Dick Trucks.
raised by gringas,
knowin’ more about
Genny Cream Ale

than Medalla.

But yo, we can eat rice and beans
with our buffalo wings all day!

And I was drinking Adirondack Cola
when my cousins was drinkin Maltas.

But my godmother’s moms would come
up from Loisaida and make some mean
pastelillos on the weekends.
So it was all good.

But people who ain’t animals
can’t understand the way
riverbanks replace
beaches,
and smallmouth bass
replace el sábalo.

No one
knows the rhythm
of Héctor Lavoe
when he’s mixed
with Led Zeppelin,
the way we animals do.

Call it Mi Gente in tye-dye.

And no one knows
what it’s like, crying
in your pampers,
while your idol
is opening a vein
outside a bar,
somewhere,
hummin’
a mashup
of
Jim Morrison
and
Ismael Rivera.

Noone knows
but we animals.

And no one
understands
the distorted sound
of your father’s
hand smacking
your mom’s face
when those fingers
are your only
pathway
to a world
of ocean breezes
and coconuts
and congas.

And that’s why we animals.

Back in the day I didn’t know
Crazy Legs was Puerto Rican
but I wanted to be a b-boy
just like him.

But no one told me that the air
upstate, prevents fluid rhythm.

But man,
my pop could dance
with the graceful confidence,
of a Paso Fino, incubated
in the appropriate climate
before migrating north,
to the cold, grey skies.

My mom,
was white as snow,
definitely couldn’t dance,
she taught me Celia Cruz though,
and recited Julia de Burgos
to me every night before bed.
She also lost her mind, like
for real.
The way an animal’s mom do.
Slow at first but quick at last.

Don’t tell, but I was smokin’ bongs
way before I was smokin’ Ls,
and I knew Jimi Hendrix,
knew his afro looked like mine,
and knew Menudo way before
the gringos did.

And I knew what it was like
scribble down an identity
out of confusion.

But that’s what animals do.
We write the story under the story.

The secret of growing
up in exile dreaming,
the oldest colony in the world—
an island paradise,
could be realized
in the touch
of the cool
autumn
breeze
upstate,

as it brushes across
the backs of all

us animals.

About the poet:

Victorio Reyes is an activist and artist living in Albany, NY. Reyes was featured in the anthology of emerging writers: Chorus, published by MTV Books and edited by Saul Williams. He holds an MFA degree from The Vermont College of Fine Arts and teaches poetry classes at Siena College. His poems are forthcoming or have been published in the Acentos Review, Mobius, Word Riot and the anthology It Was Written: Poetry Inspired by Hip Hop. Reyes will serve on a panel entitled “Uncovering Hip Hop Poetry” at the upcoming AWP Conference. Blending his writing and activism, Reyes has also been the executive director of The Social Justice Center of Albany (SJC) for the past 8 years.